


Not That Pain

by friendlylocalwhumper, Kat2107



Category: Leverage
Genre: Aftercare, Beating, Begging, Blood, Crying, Fever, Hair-pulling, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, Panic, Restraints, Russian Roulette, Torture, Tough Love, fingernails ripped off, needles under the nails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 10:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15289329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlylocalwhumper/pseuds/friendlylocalwhumper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat2107/pseuds/Kat2107
Summary: He hated things being done to his fingernails. No particular reason why, no dark story behind that preference, it was just one brand of pain he couldn't hold up against.Well, now he'd have a reason to hate it.





	Not That Pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kat2107](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat2107/gifts).



> This story came about accidentally, forged in a flurry of messages where Kat2107 and I basically just blurted headcanons at each other back and forth, until we came to the consensus that Quinn getting hurt and Eliot having to see it is just meant to be written. I wrote the prompt that got her going, she generated the imagery and emotions in glorious gut-wrenching detail, I put those images into story format, and here we are. We are a writing power duo and I fear we may be unstoppable.

_Quinn. That's Quinn._ Hardison's brain slowed down, could barely process the thought, let alone the image before him. _That's Quinn. Our Quinn._

The hitter in question was kneeling in a dark room, head tipped down. There were two men behind him, each off slightly to either side, and two in front on the sides. Each man had a gun at his hip and a plain short-sleeved shirt tucked into black pants, a belt, combat boots. Hardison's stomach would drop when he’d notice the blood on the boots of one of the men. At the moment, though, he was staring at Quinn. 

He looked like he'd caught a beating, and he couldn't have gotten many good blows in with his hands restrained behind his back like that. He was shirtless and Alec leaned in closer to see the marks across his chest. There was a large area of his stomach that was bruised. What looked like goddamn welts were raised in streaks across the skin of his torso, colored a sore pink. Hardison wasn't the kind of guy that knew what caused angry welts, or whether that bruising indicated something scary like internal bleeding. Someone like Quinn would know that. Someone like Eliot. 

"ELIOT!" The hacker yelled, turning his head only for a second to call the hitter before he turned back to the screen. Now, one of the men in front squatted by Quinn. The man grabbed a fistful of Quinn's curly hair and ripped his head back, putting him on display for the camera. The hitter blinked sluggishly, squinting into the harsh light glaring at him from the direction of the camera. These fuckers had a legit setup to capture the perfect view of him. Eliot, entering the room, stood stock still as soon as he was close enough to see. 

On the screen, the gash at his cheek was bleeding. He must've just gotten it because the blood eagerly ran down his face, about to drip from his jaw. Quinn's jaw moved a little, seemingly clamping his teeth together when the man beside him reached up to his face. Gently, possessively, the guard placed his hand at the side of the prisoner's face and let his thumb rest at the stream of blood, drawing it over to smear the blood across his skin. The pad of his thumb drew the blood down to smear the beaten man's lips with a sickening crimson hue. 

"Ready?" The man asked, half-amused by the art he'd made. Quinn was solid, still; he didn't react to the taunting question. The guard pulled his gun from its holster, thumbing the safety and raising it into sight. Now Quinn drew an uneasy breath. The guard took hold of his chin with his free hand, pressing at the sides of his jaw. 

"Open." 

Quinn didn't. Annoyed, the man pressed harder and pushed the muzzle of the gun against those blood-tinted lips. He forced the captive’s mouth open, shoving the barrel of the weapon in, and Quinn gagged at the force. The metal sat heavy on his tongue, clanking against his teeth and tasting like gun oil smelled. He distinctly felt the gun being cocked, reverberating in his head, and a chill ran down his spine. Was his death going to be recorded, broadcasted as the victory of men he'd crossed in the past? Would the bullet tear through his skull? The base of his neck, just as sure a death? 

The trigger was pulled and Quinn jerked with a choked sound. Every muscle in his body bunched in expectation of the shot, but nothing happened. Just the click of an empty mag and sadistic laughter. He blinked his eyes open - he didn't even remember deciding to close them - and looked up at the guard, jaw still forced open by the unfired gun. 

Numbers were typed across the bottom of the video in a simple overlay visual. Eliot, already fuming, slammed the table violently. For once, Hardison didn’t complain, eyes still glued to the screen, where the gun was drawn from Quinn's mouth. 

"It's a fucking- type in the numbers," Eliot growled, barely keeping his rage contained. Hardison typed, eyes wide, and a chat appeared at the side of the screen. A few seconds of the chat scrolling and both the hitter and the hacker had to take calming breaths. People were bidding, offering varying sums with... requests. Horrible, cruel things, suggestions tossed out gleefully. No usernames, just a series of numbers to identify each bidder. 

"First request of the night: needles under the nails. $2,000." The computer's speakers carried the voice of someone off-screen, reading the bid from the chat. 

"Shit," Eliot cursed, taking a seat at the table. He watched, tense, while Hardison got up to grab another laptop. "Do the trace in the other room," He said lowly. "And keep Parker outta here." The hacker didn't argue. With a last worried glance at the video, he left Eliot to watch alone. 

Onscreen, Quinn did a good job hiding his apprehension. Still, Eliot could see the signs of his fear. Lips pressed together tight. Set jaw. His legs shifting a bit where he sat on them, a bit wider apart, steadying. The grip on his hair was released, though he didn't let his head drop again. He hated having his hair grabbed roughly like that, Eliot knew, and didn't want to give one of the men around him reason to do it again. A small canvas-wrap kit was handed to a guard in the front, who unrolled it on the floor. There was a set of eight identical needles, wider at the ends by which they would be held, narrow and sharp where they would penetrate the skin. Quinn didn't look down at them; he barely moved at all. Keeping himself in control. 

He hated things being done to his fingernails. No particular reason why, no dark story behind that preference, it was just one brand of pain he couldn't hold up against. 

Well, now he'd have a reason to hate it. 

The man was behind Quinn now, and though the view of his hands was blocked, viewers would easily be able to see the hitter's reactions to the pain. 

In an instant, his face contorted in agony. The first needle was sliding into the sensitive flesh under his fingernail. His eyebrows knitted together, raised above eyes that crinkled at the corners in pain. He bared his teeth, and Eliot was proud of him for holding in the cry caught in his throat. The second needle tested his ability to hold that cry in, and halfway through riding out the pain, he did yell out, to the amusement of his captors. The third needle was pushed in slower, wringing hitched breaths from his lungs. His eyes were watering, and seeing the tears coming before they even fell, Eliot was glad he'd sent Hardison out. Nobody had a right to fucking see Quinn cry. 

But Eliot had no right to leave him alone with it, to leave him suffering alone. So he kept watching. 

By the fifth needle, tears were streaming down Quinn's face. Tuning out the jeering of the men around the gasping prisoner, Eliot shook his head. "Relax," He murmured to the screen, fingertips touching the cold surface as if caressing Quinn's face from who knows how many miles away would help anything. "Breathe into it. You're doing good, baby. Just keep breathing." 

Not even being three houses over could save Hardison from hearing Quinn's scream when they tore the first nail out. 

One of the fucking viewers requested that they get a better shot of Quinn's face, so two of the guards took hold of the kneeling man, holding him in place as the camera was zoomed in. The shot was lined up as Quinn jerked in their grips, desperate to move away from the pain, to curl in on himself. They didn't even let him turn his head away. 

Another fingernail torn off, then another, in quick succession. There were tears streaming down his face, snot dripping from his nose and onto his bloodied lips. He strained against the hands holding him, strained against the next scream building in his chest. It broke free anyway. Another terrible sound died behind his lips and he fought weakly against the hands holding him. Nowhere to go, no relief, nothing. 

~

They had no choice, not if they were going to clean those wounds. His hands were the worst of all the damage. Hardison couldn't even look at them. With Quinn's condition, they'd lain him on their bed, but now that they had to tend his wounds, it was difficult to stomach the fact that they would have to restrain him. 

Eliot had restraints in the apartment. Of course he did. He pulled the blankets from the edges of the bed to attach one end of the cuffs to the bars on either side of the bed - a requirement of Eliot's that had seemed strange when they'd picked the bed frame, but which made sense now. As he let the cuffs click into place around Quinn's bruised wrists, his face was overcast. 

"It's alright," Quinn offered, pulling at the cuffs gently to test their hold. "I don't mind the kinky stuff." 

Eliot huffed, half amused, half scoffing. He pulled his chair closer to the side of the bed and arranged the medical supplies on the nightstand beside them. "This is gonna hurt," He informed, not looking over at Quinn while he finished setting up. 

"Promise?" 

Eliot wasn't going to smile no matter how many lewd jokes he made, and Quinn knew that, but he also knew it helped for him to convince Eliot that he wasn't afraid. Well, he was afraid of the pain, but not of the sharp eyes, the steady hands that would be doing the work. He wouldn't trust anyone else with it. 

"I'm gonna take care of ya, darlin'," Eliot said, his soft words hardly offset by the hard tone. He was closing himself off to the distress. He had to focus. Now, he had to set to work. Quinn looked up at Parker, perching on the end of the bed, and Hardison standing off to the side looking restless. Quinn couldn't bring himself to smile reassuringly, so he just looked over at the other hitter once more. 

"I'm ready." If the pitch of his voice was a little higher than normal, none of them would mention it. 

Then, his breaths were ragged, his body went rigid, and the pain that had been settling into aches flared up into agony once again. A yelp escaped from between his teeth, but he couldn't bring himself to care as Eliot proceeded with his diligent work on the ruined nail beds. 

Far too quickly, it was becoming too much. The anticipation had wound him up and now he was just one big, exposed nerve ending. Lying there vulnerable, restrained, made his gut twist wretchedly. Panic bubbled up in his throat. His vision burned white as a sob pressed at the back of his throat. 

Eliot had told the other two to stay back, and they did, for now. Quinn felt distant pride in them for that, for being quiet and not getting too close. But _god_ it hurt. Eliot was the fucking sun he revolved around, but right now he wanted to punch the guy in the face. Tears started falling as he looked up at the ceiling in an attempt not to look at the gruesome sight of mangled skin and blood. Eliot glanced at Quinn, seeing the tears, but he kept working with undivided focus. He had to. He _had_ to finish it because he wouldn't subject Quinn to this a second time. 

Parker was the one that went against Eliot's order first when she climbed onto the bed and knelt over Quinn's chest in order to take his face into her hands and bend down to him. She whispered to him softly while Eliot pressed on with his ministrations. He washed off and peeled back the dirty crust on the wounds, disinfected them before wrapping each with painstaking care. Parker ignored Eliot in favor of catching Quinn's eyes. 

"Keep breathing, okay? Deep breaths. Look, I'll do it with you, see? In and out." 

Quinn was locked onto her calm eyes, forcing his breaths to match hers. 

"Good," She smiled, "You're doing good. We're so proud of you." 

Any other time, the words would sound patronizing. A man like Eliot would draw away at that tone. But at her praise, Quinn sniffled, looking up at her with his distress written clearly across his face. 

"We love you," She said softly, and it didn't take any serious contemplation, it wasn’t used as a tactic or in deceit. She didn't hesitate to say it. It came as an easy truth. "Nothing bad will happen to you, we're here with you. We'll protect you. You're so brave." She held the sides of his face, wiping away some of his tears. "I'm so glad you made it home to us. You'll be okay, everything will be okay." 

Quinn simply broke down. Not from the god-awful pain. He hated it, he hated the pain. But he knew pain, it was an old friend with brash ways and a solid right hook. This, though? Kindness, understanding? Soft words from Parker? Eliot's sure hands holding him steady as he fixed him? Hardison, flitting around the room, checking his computer, watching in concern? All things done out of love. He didn't know how to process that, he didn't have a clue how to take it into his own heart. So much assaulted his mind and body - fear, instincts screaming _tieddowntoomuchgottagetout_ , overwhelming sensation - he didn't even know if it was pain he felt anymore or just... just too much. 

Finally, _finally_ , that hand was done. All wrapped up. Eliot, without letting himself show any other emotions, pressed his lips to the back of the bandaged hand in a gentle kiss, then set it down on the bed. 

Quinn still stared up at Parker, pupils blown wide, from the pain or the fever she couldn't tell. Short, shallow breaths forced their way out past his cracked lips as he blinked his tear-heavy lashes clear. "Can we w-wait a minute? Just a..." He breathed out slowly. "Gimme a second, okay?" 

"You need something to drink?" 

Eliot sounded all business and Parker had to actually look up and check on him because she couldn't glean anything from the neutrality in his voice. 

Quinn relaxed a fraction under her and nodded weakly. "Water." 

Eliot nodded and vanished into the adjacent bathroom, giving Parker time to feel Quinn's forehead and check the fever he'd been running since before they found him. It had gone down on the way home. But that had been... before. She looked at his bandaged hand lying limp and lifeless on the bed. _Before_. 

She looked at the second hand, still to be done. 

Hardison took the chance, in the relative quiet, to approach the bed. Without a word, probably all up in knots over the whole ordeal, he leaned down and kissed the top of Quinn's head softly, just a light touch in his mess of curls. 

Eliot returned to the room, expression still surrendering no outward sign of distress, and Parker held Quinn's head while Eliot dripped a little water past his lips. Just enough to take away the horrible scratchy waver in his abused voice. 

Not enough to choke up and aspirate again when he would fight them again, or should he vomit from the pain. 

Things she never even considered, but that Eliot delivered with cold practicality and wounded eyes before he moved to start on the other hand. 

A moment's respite, then Quinn was wound up in constricting agony once more. He was hot, sweaty from the exertion of trying to hold still and quiet. He leaned into Parker's hand cupped at his cheek anyway. Quinn took a shaky breath and kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see her worry if he reacted badly to Eliot touching the twisted, broken skin on his hand. 

"Halfway there, you're doing good," Parker promised. 

He nodded, unsure what he agreed to, but he had no words. The tears flowed again, his only relief the painful grip Eliot used to hold his hand still, counter point to the unbearable, cutting burn as cloth scraped over the exposed nerve endings of his fingers. He wanted to scream again, make the raw fire in his throat replace the pain. Just... not this. Not this. _"Please..."_

His voice cracked, airy and desperate. It didn't make the pain stop, didn't make it easier to take, and his left knee bent up, his body desperate to twist free somehow. His breaths rattled in his chest, his eyes squeezed shut tight, head turning away from Parker's grounding hold. Every instinct in him screamed, _Get out, get the fuck out, get away!_

"Quinn? Quinn!" She bent closer to get his attention but snapped back at Eliot's sharp command. "Parker!" 

Quinn's head slammed forward, trying to follow the only target he had, the only chance he had to get free. _Fight._ He jerked upwards but there was nothing there, nothing there to fight except the chains. His body bucked upwards, raw throat roaring in agony and rage as he thrashed on the bed, his legs trying to find an angle to kick Parker off, pushing against the mattress, slipping against the soft material. 

He didn't notice his tears, or his cries, or Eliot's tight lipped focus on Quinn's hand, working like a maniac. No more gentle movement, he just did it, rubbed off the scab and the torn skin, washed it, the sharp sting of alcohol, get it over with. _Just finish it._

"Please," Quinn sobbed. "Stop, _please,_ n-no more." 

Eliot had never wrapped gauze so fast in his goddamn life. Thirty seconds and it was done. The bandages were secure, and he set the hand down, stepping back to demonstrate that the pain was over now, no one would touch him more. Quinn sagged into the mattress, wet eyes still spilling hot tears, and a chill was coming over him. Parker got up, and though the pain still wracked his body and made his stomach want to revolt, he'd never felt more relieved just to have people stop touching him. He closed his eyes, taking a moment in the relative calm. Tremors made him seem colder than he was, but he was distantly grateful anyway for the blanket Hardison gingerly pulled over him. It smelled nice, smelled like home. Like Eliot and Parker and Hardison. 

A kiss at his temple. "You did good, baby." Eliot, warm and gentle and close. Quinn wished he could reach out to him, that he wasn't exhausted and nauseous, that his hands weren't wrecked. 

"Go on and sleep. I'll be right here 'till you wake up. You can have some more water then. Sound good?" 

Eliot's southern accent came through stronger when he was worried, and, already drifting toward sleep, Quinn thought that was pretty damn cute. 

"Mmhmm," He hummed quietly. Having Eliot close was just about the only thing that made him feel safe, safer than he could ever be alone. Having Parker and Hardison... _“We love you”_... well, he could sleep soundly knowing he'd wake to family.


End file.
